Gethsemane’s Agony
Once again, a garden;
where silence settles slowly like dust,
falling over the ancient olive branches
twisted in terror at
what their knotted faces had to watch;
so becoming old witnesses, rooted in righteousness,
while mere men slept against their sides unheeding.
Grasses, mob trampled moments ago, begin to rise
stretching towards sky in supplication
for celestial comforters;
or, broken stemmed, lie down in the
wake of wildness now passed,
prostrate in prayer.
The old rock is stunned into a stillness
it may never recover from;
feeling bloody sweat running over its surface yet,
it yearns for ancient days of volcanic years to
mould itself into a vessel for love’s libation,
but hears instead the drip
of crimson dew upon the ground,
as Mother Earth receives her secret
holy communion too,
shuddering as, at its taste, eden memory stirs
in her long wildered garden soul.
The after glare of torches, shouts and swords
fades into the city below while
Moon rises gently,
bestowing her kiss of reparation
on this place
with softest light.
Slowly, in silent reverence,
angels and animals appear
and sit together
beneath the
blessed branches,
a sundered union sealed,
as witnesses
of the Garden’s
holy agony.
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